That Morning
Normally you’d gather your things and leave in a shy panic, but this morning you slept in with me and we made love again. In town, by the old stone fountain, there’s a man with an 8-foot albino ball python snake and for five bucks you can get your picture taken with it— but we will not go down into town and I will not like Catullus snap thousands of pictures until we’re broke and then call up a whore to fuck me nine, yes nine times. I’m trying to get this absolutely right. The words “deer,” “clouds,” “trees,” and “it felt like it was raining,” have all been crossed out. And, so, here we are: in bed, together—— so nice, so white, and so happy.
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Rauan Klassnik is the author of Holy Land (Black Ocean). No Tell Motel first published this poem in January 2008. Rauan wrote, "The heart, muscle and fluid in these poems were made over the summer, in bed, between 3 and 5 in the afternoon. How can I be so sure of these times? I am a creature of habit and I nap and/or daydream and scribble down airy notes between 3 and 5 every day. I’d lay about longer (into forever I’m sure) but when the light starts changing my birds start up an irresistible racket for food and a place by the railing. For whatever it’s worth: between 3 and 5, in bed this summer, I was by myself. Always. Sometimes it was raining."
